I Traveled for Work and He Didn’t Want Me to Leave

Work sent me to an inland city I didn’t know for almost three weeks. I didn’t mind too much: my lodging was paid for, the project was clear, and I’d always been one of those who adapt easily. The first thing I did when I got to the hotel was drop off my suitcase and check my phone. Among the apps I opened that afternoon was the dating app I’d been using for a while. If I was going to be alone for so long in an unfamiliar place, at least I wanted the option not to be.

There were several active profiles in the area. Most without photos, which I understand, but it doesn’t exactly help build trust. Among the few who showed something, I picked one: Lucas, 34, dark-haired, with a wide smile in the only picture he’d uploaded. We exchanged messages two days before I arrived. He was cautious; he wasn’t going to send the address of his house to a stranger, which seemed fair to me. We agreed to meet in a downtown park, near a fountain he described in detail so I wouldn’t get lost.

On Saturday afternoon I arrived five minutes early. He showed up on time, in a light T-shirt with his hands in his pants pockets. He turned out to be exactly like the photo, maybe a little taller than I’d imagined. We stood talking for a few minutes, that nervous-yet-relaxed kind of chat that happens when you already know why you’re there but still need to break the ice. He invited me to his apartment and I accepted.

The building had an inner garden with plants someone took care of carefully. We went up a narrow staircase to the second floor. The apartment was larger than I’d expected: living-dining room with big windows letting in the late-afternoon light, kitchen in the back, everything tidy. He offered me cold water and some sandwiches he’d already prepared on the coffee table in front of the couch. We sat down side by side and kept talking, unhurried, with that ease that sometimes appears between strangers when both know they don’t have to pretend anything.

At one point I leaned in and kissed him. I didn’t announce it first. I just did it, and he responded immediately, with a willingness that surprised me a little. It was one of those long kisses that last too long and still seem too short. His lips were warm, opening hungrily, and his tongue came looking for mine without shyness. I slipped my hand under his T-shirt, felt the damp heat of his back, the small tremor in his breathing when I bit his neck. In his profile he’d defined himself as a bottom, but I had a certain expectation that things might get complicated depending on the situation. I saved that thought for later.

Within minutes our clothes were scattered over the couch and the floor. He had a good body, with dark hair on his chest and skin that still held the warmth of the afternoon. When I pulled his briefs down, his cock came out heavy, already half-hard, the tip glossy with precum. I didn’t waste any time getting it into my mouth. I liked the salty taste of skin, the thickness growing between my lips, the way his thighs tightened when I started sucking him hard, deep, making him come in and out of my mouth until he ran out of breath. He held my head for a second, not squeezing, just guiding. He did it well, with real concentration, without rushing. I stopped him before it all ended there. I got him to his feet, did the same with him, and asked him to take me to the bedroom.

The bed was made. A detail that doesn’t go unnoticed. We lay down, kept kissing, our hands moving without any fixed map. He ran his palm over my chest, down to my abdomen, opened my thighs carefully and found me already wet, ready. He asked me to turn over, and when I was face down I slowly sank two fingers into him, working him first gently, then deeper, until his ass loosened. He was moaning into the pillow, voice broken, asking for more without stopping pushing his hips back. When I went in I did it slowly, because it was clear that what mattered to him was the full experience, not just the result. I opened him at a patient pace, coming in and out only a little at first, feeling him grip me better and better around the cock every time. He responded more with his body than with words, but that was more than enough.

We spent more than an hour at it. We changed positions several times, testing what gave him more pleasure, where the pressure fit best, what rhythm pushed him to the edge. I put him on all fours, spread his ass cheeks with my hand, and slapped into his hole until the wet sound of our bodies filled the room. Then I turned him around, sat him on top of me, and let him lower himself slowly, bracing on my shoulders as he took my cock centimeter by centimeter, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. At some point he asked me to finish inside him, and I did, with that stillness that comes after sustained tension. When I came, I felt the hot impact inside him, the final clench of his body, and he arched over me with a long moan, still trembling on my legs.

We stayed lying side by side for a good while without saying anything. Then he got up, put on a long T-shirt, went to the kitchen and came back with water and something to eat. He turned on the TV to something neither of us was really watching and settled in beside me as if I already belonged there.

—Aren’t you leaving? —he asked at one point, with no particular inflection, as if it were a neutral question.

—I wasn’t planning to. But if I’m in the way, I’ll go —I answered, and started looking for my clothes.

—No, stay —he said. —It’s just that everyone leaves right after they come.

—I’m not everyone —I told him.

He laughed. So did I. I lay back down again. I ran my hand over his belly, pinched one nipple with two fingers just to make him react, and he bit his lip. We stayed until after eight at night watching TV, sharing what was on the table, talking about things that had nothing to do with sex. When I left I told him that if he wanted, I could come back the next day. He said yes without even thinking.

***

And I went back. And the next day too. Over the course of those three weeks we saw each other six or seven times: some short visits, others with the whole night available. We already had an established routine. I’d arrive, he’d have something ready to drink, we’d chat for a while, and at some point the conversation would break off on its own because we’d start touching each other. I slept in his bed three times. It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t just sex either. It was something comfortable neither of us wanted to put into words.

One afternoon he mentioned a friend who sometimes visited him. He said he wanted to set something up between the three of us, that the guy was generous in that way and knew I was versatile. It seemed fine to me. We agreed that the next time that friend came by, Lucas would let me know.

The heads-up came two days before I was due to go back home. It was a Thursday around five. We were in bed when the doorbell rang. Lucas put on only a robe and went to answer. I heard voices in the entryway, then footsteps, and stayed where I was.

He came back to the bedroom, took off the robe, and found me as if nothing had changed. He whispered in my ear that his friend was about to appear. We kept going with what we were doing. A minute later a man in his forties appeared in the doorway: tall, thin, with almost no body hair, and an erection halfway there that already promised a lot in terms of thickness.

By then I was leaning back against the headboard and Lucas was going down on me kneeling on the bed, swallowing my cock with an almost obscene concentration, licking the base, sucking the tip, leaving my skin wet with saliva. The newcomer came in slowly, watching the scene. I motioned for him to come closer. When I had him near I took him in my hand: he was exactly what his outline had suggested from the doorway, very thick, one of those cocks that demands attention. The skin was hot, taut, and the tip was already leaking. I brought it to my mouth, licked it lightly, tasted the salty flavor before admitting to myself that I didn’t like it at all.

The smell hit before anything else. Strong, sour, impossible to ignore. I didn’t make a face, it wasn’t the moment, but I discreetly pulled away. He moved straight toward Lucas, who was still on all fours on the bed, ass lifted and cheeks spread to receive him.

He took Vaseline from the nightstand and lubed himself up. Lucas was looking at me while he did it, with his mouth still occupied with mine. The penetration was slow; that man knew what he was doing even if he didn’t show any emotion on his face. First he rubbed the tip against the opening, then he pushed in little by little, with a firm hand on Lucas’s hip, until Lucas’s body gave and swallowed him whole. When he reached the bottom, Lucas let go of what he had between his lips for a second and exhaled hard. Then he went back at it as if nothing had happened, sinking his face in again, sucking me harder, while the other man started working his cock in and out with a deep, dry rhythm that made the bed tremble.

The third guy fucked him for a while, then lay back on the bed and gestured for the two of us to come closer. Lucas went without thinking. I tried again: the smell was still just as present, with no nuance. I put what I could in my mouth for a couple of minutes, trying to separate the sensation from the context, but I couldn’t sustain it. I kept going with Lucas, fucked him a bit longer, changed positions several times. I did it kneeling behind him, one hand on his waist and the other on his chest, feeling his nipples harden when I pinched them, feeling his legs open wider to let me in better. Then I turned him face-to-face again, sat on him, sank all the way in, and let him mark me from below with every thrust, until a long, almost painful moan slipped out of him.

That was when the guy got behind me. I didn’t reject him at first. I let him in. The sensation was intense, genuinely intense; the thickness did its job in a very concrete way. He filled me brutally, heavily, pushing my abdomen downward while Lucas stayed latched onto my mouth and my thighs. But there was something about all of it that just didn’t work, and it wasn’t only the smell. At one point I pulled away, got up, and went to the bathroom. I washed up, got dressed slowly. When I came back to the bedroom he was lying there staring at the ceiling while Lucas was still busy with him.

I took my things from the couch in the living room and left without making a sound.

Lucas texted me that night. And the next day. And the day after that. I answered once: I told him hygiene wasn’t a minor detail for me, that I was sorry, and that I’d rather leave it there. He never wrote back.

I went home the next day. The flight was on time, my suitcase arrived intact, the project had gone well. From that city I was left with one clear image: Lucas settling beside me on the couch with something to snack on and the TV on, not asking whether I was going to stay because he already knew the answer was yes.

That, I brought home with me.